


The 65th Annual Hunger Games : Just Another Way to Die.

by fallingfromresolution



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, catching fire - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:57:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingfromresolution/pseuds/fallingfromresolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This tells the story of District 8 tribute Immogen and her time in the Capitol, before she enters the arena. but she has already made enemies and she must watch her back, especially when she can't even trust herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 65th Annual Hunger Games : Just Another Way to Die.

I wake up with a feeling of dread coiled in my stomach. The reaping has come again, and this time my gut says the odds have given up on me. The sun streams through the wooden slats that cover the glassless windows. It is cold light that makes me shudder and want to go back to sleep but I do exactly the opposite and slip from the covers and walk to it. I stand there looking up to the high slitted window, listening to the distant crying of children in the surrounding houses.

I stop to look at myself in the mirror, my eyes dark from a sleepless night. My tanned skin looks washed out by fear and apprehension, my black hair sticking out of my messy bun. A gentle hand is placed on my shoulder and I see the old face of my aunt. Her smile looks forced, a little overused, and it wavers when I try hard to smile back. I fear it is more of a grimace. She just nods slightly and turns away. She never talks much, even less since the death of my uncle, her husband. He died in a workplace accident. But I don’t like to dwell on the subject since that’s how my dad died too. My mum’s gone too. Took off with some other guy, never saw her again. Although I don’t really remember what she looked like in the first place since she left straight after I was born. But dad used to say I looked like her. I don’t think he fully recovered from her leaving him, he always used to seem distant but happy in some strange way, like he was somewhere else entirely. Sometimes I wish I could be in whatever place he was in. Anywhere is better than here. 

The hours tick by too quickly. Before I have caught up I am walking to the district’s main square which today is decorated with the Capitol’s crest. Looming ahead of me is the grey slab of concrete, called the Justice Building. On top of it are cameras and sound crews perched and ready to record the action. Everyone streams in from the streets leading to the square, looking down at the ground with solemn faces. I barely notice them though, bumping into a few people as I stare avidly at the reaping ball standing alone on the stage above the roped areas for the kids. A few kids from my year at school sneer at me mockingly as they shoulder pass and head for administration. I guess they know I’m screwed this time. My eyes drift to where a small girl wails in the middle of the steady flow of people, eyes squeezed shut and her face red. A woman stops to look at her with sympathy and pulls her behind her. By the time they are out of sight I seem to have already gone through administration, I look down to see red blood blooming in a small dot on my finger. I suck on it distractedly not even noticing the metallic taste of blood, as I walk, barely lifting my feet off the ground, to the place where all the girls are standing. I edge my way with my finger still in my mouth through the sea of rigid girls to the middle where I stand behind an abnormally tall girl so I have a legitimate excuse to watch the Capitol’s film. I look down at my feet, taking an interest in the way whenever the girl next to me shuffled slightly the dirt would reform, making it look like peoples’ faces. 

I almost shout aloud when the microphone screeches through the speakers surrounding the square. Then I hear steps making their way towards the front, they echo in the stillness of the place.   
“Welcome,” says a voice echoing through the square.  
I stand on my toes to get a glimpse of a short Capitol woman dressed entirely in yellow, completely contrasting with the dull greys and blacks of District 8. Looking around there are absolutely no traces of colours, no grass or trees, only concrete and dirt on all sides. Quite depressing. The woman goes on in a bored tone muttering something about something that I’ve heard a million times before. But I’ve only ever stood in this position once before. That time I had my name in the reaping only 12 times, this year there are 24 pieces of paper with my name written on it. I guess I just had to eat.  
They play the Capitol film which I don’t even listen to, the Mayor makes a short speech, introducing the Capitol woman as Palerma someone and handing the microphone to one of District 8’s previous victors. He says a crude sentence or two and sits back down. Then silence descends on everyone as Palerma someone walks up to the microphone.  
“Now it is time to choose this year’s tributes,” she says in a flat monotone, as if she had read the script hundreds of times.  
She walks briskly over to the reaping ball filled with all the girls’ names. A sick feeling wriggles its way up my stomach that makes me want to vomit, and have to keep down the overpowering nausea. Time seems to slow as she plunges her hand into the sea of paper, while my mind whispers over and over, Its you, you know it will be, the odds are definitely not your favour...  
I don’t even notice her walking back to the microphone.   
“Immogen Solus!” Booms the voice of the Capitol representative over the speakers. She looks up expectantly.  
For a moment I think I might pass out, my knees shake and sweat pools on my palms. I try to swallow past the lump in my throat but instead I make a strangled sound. The tall girl in front of me turns slowly to face me, so does everyone else. There are looks of sympathy, relief, unexpected fear on their faces, some I recognise, some I don’t. I see one very skinny girl from my class in my peripheral vision, she wares a look of triumph but underneath is relief more than anything. She sees me looking and sharpens her look of triumph and adds malice to it. I turn from her, and almost trip over my own feet edging back through the girls, this time everyone is looking at me. I feel my cheeks redden and I fist my hands to keep from biting my nails. They dig hard into my skin making my eyes water. Soon I am walking slowly to the first step leading up to the stage, feeling thousands of eyes burning into my back. One step at a time, I think. Just keep going. I make it up and almost at once Palerma pulls me by the sleeve impatiently to stand beside her. I start to scan the faces looking up at me. I am so lost in analysing each expression that I don’t register the change in attention to somewhere at the front of the boys’ section. I turn my gaze to a boy walking up the steps slowly, with shoulders hunched and expression of pure terror. A wave of whispers rolls through the crowd, and I know what they’re saying, they’ll never make it, they’re going to die...  
And I almost agree with them as I see the boy walk towards me, long uncoordinated limbs with a slight limp in one leg, bony shoulders and elbows. He looks as if he could break if I poked him. Paloma shuffles me to the other side of her and announces us as District 8’s tributes for the 65th annual Hunger Games. Then she stalks off into the Justice Building, leaving me and the boy standing speechless and totally stunned. I just stare over the buildings of District 8 and wonder what freedom would be like.  
We are marched into the Justice Building by peacekeepers and sent to small unfurnished rooms that smells subtly of camphor and old soap. I wait there for ages and nothing happens so I sit on the floor. Just as I do that the door opens to reveal another peacekeeper. I stand immediately but he only holds the door open for my aunt. I give a big gush of relief at the sight of her assuring face. The peacekeeper mutters something about five minutes and shuts the door behind him, leaving just the two of us to stare at each other. After a few seconds she hugs me which is a surprise, and all at once I seem to have the complete realisation of the enormity of the past hour. The past hour changed my life, and probably ended it too. This hug was a goodbye hug. I pulled away and was surprised again to see tears glint in her pale grey eyes.   
“You look so much like your mother,” she says quietly.  
I don’t know what to say so I don’t say anything. Thankfully she continues.  
“You are the daughter I never had,” she struggles to get the last words out before she bursts into tears.   
I hug her again not knowing what else to do. I feel her tears soak into my shoulder. We stay together in an embrace until the peacekeeper comes and drags her away.

I don’t get anymore visitors, which I had expected. I don’t have friends. I have people that don’t sneer at me when I walk past, and occasionally nod a greeting to me. I prefer neglect than the words that followed me after my dad died, suicide, suicide, suicide...   
Following me everywhere. Of course, I merely brushed the comments aside knowing the facts of my fathers passing. He was killed at the factory he worked at, where a machine overheated and burned the place to ash. It was talked about all through the town, there was no denying it.  
I feel my eyelids droop, and my head drop, my chin to my chest. Someone pulls me up harshly and half drags me along a grey corridor lit dimly by blue lights. I drag my feet from pure exhaustion and darkness nibbles at the sides of my blurred vision. I see ahead that the corridor meets with another. As the peacekeeper pulls me past, another, holding the other tribute boy firmly, walks next to us. The motion is seamless and only a moment later fresh air, completely contrast to the stale air of the waiting room, hits me and lets me stand slightly straight, well at least not leaning on the peacekeeper. Daylight shines outside the justice building walls and when we step out I want to stop to soak it all up, but get pulled along hastily instead. Then we are hustled into a metallic grey car with a massive bonnet. I am squished inside on the back seat next to Palerma and on the other side the boy whose name I don’t know even now.

~~~

 

“Here we are. Yes come on. Hurry up,” says Palerma impatiently.  
We are once again pushed and pulled in all directions as we are led to the train. I pause at the entrance marveling at the smooth metal finish and the fresh smell of flowers and soap from inside. Someone shoves me inside when I take too long. I gape as we are led into one of the carriages, carpeted, furnished with a table laden with wondrous smelling foods. Palerma grunts with satisfaction behind me and turns to leave.   
“Wait,” says the boy. I’d never heard him talk before and his voice surprises me.  
Palerma whips around impatiently as she reaches the door.  
“What?” She says crudely.  
The boy seems slightly taken aback.  
“I-I...Where are you going?”  
Palerma only rolls her eyes, shakes her head and leaves. Two minutes later, after an awkward silence between myself and the boy, Palerma returns with a woman. The woman is the most normal looking person I have ever seen from the Capitol, with her hair in a single ponytail, a plain green shirt made out of silk, black trousers, and brown boots. Her face wears an expression of pity and oddly remorse, and then I realise she is directing them at me. She smiles warmly, but it looks difficult, now I can see signs of age around her eyes and mouth. I also notice dark circles under her grey eyes.   
“This is Tracey, your mentor,” says Palerma.  
The good feeling about this woman dies immediately with these words.  
“Nice to meet you,” says the boy politely. “I’m Darrem.”  
I take a mental note of his name and thank him silently for not making me ask.  
Tracey turns to me. I don’t say anything.   
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” says Palerma. I’ve never been so glad to hear words come out of her mouth.  
Tracey turns to acknowledge her, as she does I slip away to the window. Amazingly we have already started traveling, though I hadn’t felt anything. I hear a thud behind me. Darrem has flopped down into one of the violet coloured sofas and is swiveling in it childishly.  
“This is amazing,” he says loudly but to himself.   
I wonder then, if he is dim minded or something. I almost feel pity for him. 

We arrive in the Capitol two days later. I stay in my room most of the trip, trying to avoid tactical talk with Tracey. But when we enter a tunnel and start grinding to a halt I make my way to the main carriage. Tracey is sitting motionless at the table staring absently at the mound of food. Darrem is at the window staring in awe at something. I go over to the window too, and see what he is so excited about. We are slowing just enough so we can see tall buildings reaching to the sky, domes, streets and after we enter another dark tunnel, millions of people. It is almost blinding to look at them, but strangely compelling. The colours blare out from everywhere and jewelry glints in the sun. Next to me Darrem is waving, which seems to make their cheering and clapping heighten. So I sit down away from the window and block out all sounds. All that time I feel Tracey’s eyes burning into my back. We are bustled off the train and through the cheering Capitol citizens with four peacekeepers around us each. I keep my head down and my pace fast, and to my relief we are soon in the safety of an elevator carrying us up swiftly. 

When we stop I am propelled forward by my awe. Palerma and Tracey walk casually past me into the huge expanse of living area. It is even grander than the train carriage, bigger too, and with massive, seamless windows, stretching across the entire back of the room. Some of the walls are even curved, matching the seats, giving an odd illusion of dizziness that catches me off guard. I decide to lie down.

I am escorted by a tall, skinny girl clad all in red, to my bedroom. I barely take in the amazing view from the spotless window or the exquisite colours of the carpet and bed dressings, as I drop lifeless onto the soft mattress and fall asleep before my head hits the pillow. 

A thump on the door and Palerma’s droning voice wakes me from darkness. I sit up rigid from sleeping awkwardly and stare at the door. I only get up when I decide her voice is starting to annoy me. I open the door and all at once I am bombarded with coloured artificial light coming from the dining room. I blink a few times as she pulls me towards them. She sits me in a chair next to Darrem who is looking greedily at the table laden with food. The sight of so much food honestly makes me nauseas, when I know back home my aunt will have nothing tonight. I stab my food with a spotless silver fork all night, pushing it around, arranging it so it looks like I’ve eaten more than I have. As soon as we’re dismissed I hurry back to bed.

~~~

 

The next day we are taken to see the stylists. After being hosed down several times I am taken to a small room where I sit on the edge of a metal table. Then the doors slide open, revealing a short man dressed in so many clashing colours I have to stop myself from squinting as he strides towards me. He holds out a hand introduces himself as Crame in a slightly arrogant, pompous tone.   
“Congratulations!” He cries. “It must be such an honour.”  
I stare at him stupidly, asking myself how it could be an honour in any way.  
“Yes,” I say when he tilts his head to one side after my silence, as if trying to figure out what is wrong with me.  
“Excellent!” He says, with much enthusiasm.  
I wonder if he knows he is basically preparing a lamb for the slaughter.   
He starts to go on about the tribute parade, and I start thinking about all the ridiculous things he could do to me to make an ‘impact’. 

I find myself staring at a complete stranger reflected in the mirror in front of me. She has dead straight hair with two green and white checkered bows on either side of her head, making her look like an eight-year-old. She wears a matching dress that sits above her knees, the big puffy sleeves making her arms stick out from her sides. On her chest is a glittery patch of black cloth with the number eight drawn in green sequins, glinting off all the lights around her. But the surprising thing is her face with bright red lips, perfect, unblemished skin, eyes that glitter an unnatural green, surrounded by black eye-liner, sweeping off at the edges like the wing of a butterfly. 

Someone grunts behind me, waking me from my trance. I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, knowing I jumped and my surprise shows on my face. I am looking into someones broad bare chest, my eyes go up and up until I find the face. I see shining black eyes filled with malice staring down at me. I immediately feel intimidated but also feel the eyes of all the other tributes around on the two of us. I squeeze down the fear and try to swallow past the lump in my throat.   
“Hey, don’t you look cute!” He says. “And congratulations. It must be such an honour.”  
I manage a nod and a strangled sound of agreement.   
Noticing his red helmet and armored pants to match I guess he’s from District 2. Then he leans close and whispers, “Good luck Immie.”  
I shudder inwardly. Then he stands straight again and ruffles my hair.  
“Nice meeting you cutie,” he says.   
I watch him strut away to join the girl from 2 next to his chariot. That’s when I notice the noise begins again, bubbling at first then building up. I realise everyone had been listening and shudder again. I pull my dress down as far as it will go and flatten out my hair. I accidentally brush one of the bows to the ground and I squat to pick it up. When I stand Darrem has appeared next to me which gives me a jolt of surprise. He is wearing the same checkered pattern as I am, only, he’s not wearing a dress. Instead he’s wearing long pants that flare at the ankle, a black collared shirt with the checks over it as a vest. His sandy hair is sticking out from his forehead like the bow of a ship with a faint green tinge at the very peak. He looks as if he is about to say something but is interrupted by Palerma pushing us towards our chariot. I haul myself awkwardly onto the platform just as the horse jerks us into motion.

We follow the District 7 tributes at an agonisingly slow pace around seemingly endless identical twists and turns until I hear it. The sound of a crowd roaring in excitement drifts to us from the main street we are approaching. Then I see it, the millions of Capitol citizens seated in stands rising ten feet off the ground into the air. Their cheering rises to new levels as the first chariot takes to the stage. On the many overhead projectors is the faces of the two District 1 tributes. I commit the faces of these tributes to memory. They both look amazing and confident, waving to the cameras and the roaring crowd. As the other chariots move forward, shortening the gap between me and the view of the crowd, my stomach feels heavy like it’s carrying a boulder. Something about so many people looking down on me from those stands is unnerving. Finally the chariot lurches forward and the horse starts off at a canter, pulling me into bright, coloured lights and deafening cries of excitement. I stare around, astonished and frozen, at the rows upon rows of cheering Capitol citizens looking at me. I look up to the images projected on the overheads, seeing Darrem smiling and waving to the crowd. On another is the image of that strange girl I don’t know, looking pale and ghostly in the white lights, like a deer in the headlights of a truck. All of a sudden the absurdity of this moment hits me, slams hilariously into my face. Dressing up tributes like dolls and making them parade, getting this much enjoyment out of watching them, I think, watching the Capitol, now jumping up and down. I begin to laugh, I think maybe because of my nerves, or how ridiculous I feel in this childish dress. A smile stretches across my face and my body relaxes, I lift a hand and wave.

The rest is a blur of speeches made by important Capitol people, but I still wear my smile the whole time. My cheeks ache as we arrive back at the training center and my legs feel strange from having stood on the chariot for so long but I feel dizzy with relief and almost, almost joy, but not quite. We take the elevator back to our floor where I go straight to my room and flop onto my bed, falling asleep instantly. 

I wake up sore so I take a shower, washing off my makeup, still remaining from last night. I imagine all the pain and suffering of my aching muscles washing off with it and slipping down the drain. I dress and go out for breakfast which is already on the table even though it is still dark outside. Eating in the dim light, nibbling at bits and pieces, the dream I had been having resurfaces. A nightmarish image of the District 2 tribute flashes in my mind. I shake myself awake and take a swig of something strong-smelling and foul-tasting just to rid myself of his face in my mind.

~~~

We train for the next three days, four days? Tracey said not to show our strengths in front of the other tributes so Darrem and I spend most of the time lighting fires and looking through books concerning poisonous and edible fruits and leaves. I eye the other tributes, trying to gauge their strength and commit their faces to my memory. In these three...four days, I almost feel purposeful, but it’s more like a kid with a chore, doing it because their so wholesomely bored to the bone. That’s what it’s like, I’m doing this stuff because I am denying the inevitable. I am going to die. Somehow I have talked myself into thinking all these survival skills will save my life or something like that. 

Suddenly I am standing in front of a shiny mirror, my reflection staring back at me distantly and impersonally.   
“Excellent! You look simply adorable!” Says someone, I don’t know who.  
My reflection shifts from foot to foot in agitation, tilting her head sideways, as if that will alter how she looks, it might add a year or two. I look like I’m twelve, and no amount of head tilting is going to fool anyone. The short, pouffy, royal blue dress, studded with sequins makes me want to squirm, and the three-inch glittery, silver heels make standing upright a battle. And I don’t even think they suit the dress. If they wanted me to look like a kid they should have left me in flats. 

I half trip, limp, walk to the end of the line, behind fourteen other tributes, including the boy from 2. Darrem comes up behind me in a smart-looking silver-grey suit, and I find myself wishing his stylist was mine. Obviously his realises he is a person and not a doll to be dressed up in cute fairy costumes. Tracey explained to us that we have exactly three minutes to make an impact on the audience, or potential sponsors, by showing them our charm. I don’t know about the other tributes, but there’s not much going for me in the category of charm. As we wait for the other tributes to arrive there’s a nervous buzz like an electrical current running up and down the single-file line, and I have managed to bite my tongue twice, creating two large lumps inside my mouth. There are some though, that seem extremely calm despite the growing bubble of excitement coming from the invisible audience. I notice the girl from 4, wearing a stunning, long silver dress, her shiny, black hair pulled back into an intricate twist at the top of her head with an elegant silver hair slide. I envy her for a moment and marvel again at her age. She is only twelve and yet she is at least a head taller than I am and much more petite in her stature and movements. I have also watched her these last few days, noting her speed, agility and skill with a spear. Despite her age no one doubted her capability, coming from 4, a Career District, the tributes are usually eighteen, training from childhood and then volunteering. This girl, her name still escapes my mind, volunteered, taking many by surprise, but from then on everyone knew she was in it to win. I might’ve been staring or maybe it is just bad luck that the boy from 2 turns around, meeting my eyes exactly. I drop my eyes to the dull grey tiles and hear a sound of amusement from the front of the line. I snatch a look up and see the boy look up and down the line then approaches with massive strides. I groan inwardly as I see his giant-sized feet almost toe to toe with my own dwarfed feet. I look up warily. He gazes down at me in part fascination, part smug amusement and something else, pity?  
“Why, don’t you look gorgeous,” he says in his smooth, silky tone.  
I finally find my voice and say, “I look like a little kid.”  
He makes a face of mock surprise, “Oh, so you do talk!” He exclaims. “And, you are a little kid, really.”  
I feel my cheeks redden and I clench my fists until my knuckles go white.  
“Yes,” I try a laugh, “I suppose I am. But I think youth is depicted as a time of vitality. And you can’t gauge age just by physical appearance, wisdom comes from the heart and mind. That is something only age can bring.”  
He pauses for a moment, maybe contemplating my words, probably not. Probably running through all the possible ways to kill me there and then and make it look like an accident.  
“You know, I never liked goody-two-shoes’ or smart-asses, they irritate me.” His voice is cold and malice skates underneath, intimidating.  
“Yes,” I say pleasantly.  
“Careful.” Says the caution in my thoughts, “This single person is the personified version of danger and evil mashed up into one being.”  
“Good luck,” I say trying a genuine tone and failing miserably.  
“I don’t need it,” he counters coldly, giving me one last calculating look before striding purposefully back in line. As he goes past each tributes’ eyes drop to their feet or hands in fear, but as he reaches the boy from 4, he stops just as purposefully, meeting the smaller boy’s eyes. The boy from 4 is dwarfed by 2’s enormity but there is no shift or falter in his confidence as he holds the cold glare. His auburn hair, all slicked back and shiny makes something resurface in my memory, I recall his unusual and unparalleled skill with a trident. A chill ran down my spine at the memory of the deadly accuracy at which he had hurled the glinting silver trident at a red and white target. The chill reappears at the memory. Luckily for 4, some Capitol official appears just as it looks as if 2 fancies putting his training into practice.

At last when all the tributes have arrived, we are all ushered out onto the stage, greeted by the host of the interviews Caesar Flickerman, suited in all green and sparkles, and a mass of screaming darkness beyond the stark stage lighting. Cameras are pointed in my face as I step reluctantly out into fluorescent purples and blues shining above. I turn my head slightly away in response. Caesar Flickerman gives a great big, camera-ready smile and announces.  
“This year’s Tributes!”  
The crowd roars and high pitched whistling fills my ears until I feel faint. I notice the girl from 4, composed and smiling radiantly, I feel a dagger of jealousy and a hint of pity pierce my heart. When the cheering dies down everyone around me sits, and I almost fall back into a curved white chair, set low to the ground, in pure, inexplicable exhaustion. We are all seated in a semi-circle around the two interview chairs in the center. Around us, on the outer circle are the stylists of each tribute, their mentor and I notice Palerma is also seated behind me. Her hair sticks out at odd angles in the Capitol’s abstract fashion. It looks bad. And I know nothing about fashion. Each minute the time for my interview nears. I only half listen to what the other tributes say, noting dully that each of them seems confident in their chance at winning. The boy from 2, Aleck, speaks highly and rather pompously of his hand-to-hand combat skills, all the girls in the audience scream when he gives a bow at the end of his minute. Annoyingly, he gives off a smug, but somehow still likable air, rendering the gullible and intellectual alike, helpless against his smooth, silky tone and persuasive words. I doubt even the gullible will be compelled to listen to my voice.

“So, Immogen,” begins Caesar Flickerman. “How are you finding the Capitol?”  
A long pause before the words start to form any sense in my mind.   
“It’s, err, different,” I say lamely.  
“Different? How?”  
Why does he have to ask so many questions? I think.  
“It’s much louder than at home...And the food is good,” I say, I try to smile but I really feel like crying or banging my head on the ground, both possibly.   
I get a quiet murmur of laughter from the audience, who are just a black void of shuffling shadows in front of me.   
“Ahhaha! Now, what would you say your biggest strength is...what will help you win?” He leans forward in suspenseful interest.  
I feel my heart sink. My strength? I don’t know the answer to that!  
“My speed,” I start. “And my ability to gauge people.”  
The words spill out of my mouth without consent and I am already kicking myself inside.  
Caesar Flickerman seems intrigued by my answer and I notice dully the silence, and stillness all of a sudden. I have the sense that even the other tributes are interested in what will happen next.  
“That’s very interesting Immogen,” he says quizzically. “How would that skill aid you in the arena?” Again he edges forward in his seat. If it had been anyone else I would’ve thought it mockery.  
“Well, I can tell what their strengths are, their weaknesses, what they might do in terms of strategy, who they are most likely to form alliances with...What they fear most. How I can use that information to my advantage.”   
A murmur, a wave of whispers flows through the audience. They’re all judging me. I think. Before Caesar can comment or ask another question the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of my three minutes. He thanks me in his over-the-top, way-too-friendly, colourful way, shakes my hand and shouts into his diamond studded microphone.  
“Immogen Solus!” The crowd cheers feebly, and all I want to do is hide.

I dwell on my horrible performance for the next nine minutes and flinch every time I think of how the crowd clapped so drearily.

Finally we are ushered off the stage, where I can finally be free of the oppressive feeling making my chest hurt. The mentors and stylists file off after us. I see Palerma and Tracey coming towards me with looks of mixed anxiety and pity of their faces. I keep my eyes fixed on them as people mill around, but a shadow looms over me blocking my complete vision.  
“You can read my fears, can you Immie?” The words are spoken low, menacing and dangerous but I know everyone is looking our way now. “That’s what you said right?”  
I stare straight ahead into his stomach and stutter over something inaudible.  
“What’s that?” He says.  
All of a sudden something in me bursts, just a tiny flame in my stomach that makes anger surge through my blood.  
“I know you’re an arrogant bully, who picks out the weakest in the crowd just to feel superior!” The words stream from my mouth, uncontrolled, without any processing from my brain. Although I think I had those words laid out prior to tonight.  
Aleck’s eyes bulge and his face turns red in an almost comical way, except I am standing only a foot away from his massive build that, undoubtedly, can smash me into a fine pulp before anyone can help me. I notice the silence too and the lack of any movement, as if they move he’ll turn on them. Aleck raises his fist, but I don’t look at it, I focus on a large vein protruding from his left temple, pulsing in anger. My gaze switches to his fist suddenly and I brace to duck or be hit. He swings his fist down fast, but I counter and step back just in time. I feel the air in front of my nose. Before he lunges at me again with renewed anger something impossible happens.  
“Hey!” A shout rises from the edge of horrified spectators.  
Aleck turns his attentions to whoever shouted in bemusement. Then I groan as I see 4 step forward. I really don’t want to see this, anymore than getting pounded.   
“She’s right you know,” 4’s voice is incredibly steady. “You’re just a coward hiding behind a grand mask of a bully.”  
“Shut up!” Aleck yells.   
I’m close enough to feel it rumble through my chest. I hope someone, preferably peacekeepers, heard him. 4 steps forward again.  
“Gutless,” one word and he pauses. I pray that he doesn’t say anything else, that he sees he can’t win. But no. “That’s what you are as well.”  
I fidget as I watch Aleck advance towards 4, rocking on the balls of my feet, my hands twitching.   
“Say that again,” says Aleck through gritted teeth.  
4 steps forward again and again until he’s looking up at Aleck.  
“You. Are. Gutless.” He says it and my heart drops. I can’t watch.  
Aleck looks about ready to strangle 4 but something else impossible happens.  
“Stop,” someone says. Quietly, but it echoes in the silence.   
The voice is mine and I know it. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Says the voice in my head.  
But some other part of my brain works against my will.  
“Save it for the games,” I blurt out.  
I want to kick myself. But Tracey says I have to be in my top physical condition. So I stand, glued to one spot and wait until mumbles rise from the crowd as people move off, back to the suites. Aleck allows himself to be pulled away from 4, who had stayed still the entire time, with one final glare with the intention to harm, aimed at me over his shoulder. It feels like ages since I have breathed, so I take long, deep ones to replenish my supply of oxygen. 4 leaves shortly after Aleck and I am alone with Tracey. Darrem must have gone with Palerma and the stylists.  
“Come on,” says Tracey.  
I feel sick.

I throw up in the bathroom as soon as I get back to the District 8 suite. My stomach heaves until there is nothing left inside me and my head hurts from coughing so much. I splash my face with icy water that runs down my neck and soaks my dress. My makeup smudges under my eyes, making my eyes look wide and startled. I change into a plain pair of loose pants and singlet top. Both are black. It matches dark mood. I can’t bring myself to talk to anyone and definitely not to eat anything. The thought of food makes me nauseas.

I wake late in the night, my empty stomach protesting with a passion. I fly from the room with a craving for something warm and hearty, not bothering to glance in a mirror. My stomach growls again as I stand before an unlaid table in dim, half-light. Stepping through the thin darkness, I make my way to the kitchen, hoping even for an oddment of dinner leftover. A search proves fruitless, even in a literal sense, so I settle for a glass of water. Taking it back to my room, now with a dull ache settling in my stomach, I stop and follow a pulsing light coming from the floor-to-ceiling windows. I look down and watch in distaste as Capitol people move around in a blurry swath of colours as bright lights shine in the sky and over the crowd. Their shouts rise and penetrate the thick glass, though muffled. Before I can block the thought, I think about how they are probably ridiculing my performance at the interview. I shake my head and turn from the window to see Tracey sitting on the couch behind me. I wonder how long she’s been here.   
“Have you been watching me?” I ask. My voice seems to loud for the sleeping apartment.  
“No, you walked right past me,” she replies, her voice as hard as ever, but sounding tired around the edges.  
“Sorry,” I say.  
“Don’t be. Sit,” she nods at the seat across from her.  
I do as I am told. She looks at me for a while.  
“You’re a good kid. But you’re stupid,” she says.  
I frown, only mildly hurt but taken aback by her abruptness.   
“I just mean, that you’ve made the wrong enemies.”  
Only one actually, I think, and yes probably the wrong one.  
“I don’t want to see you die. I don’t want to see anyone die. Because this,” she makes a circular hand gesture. “This is all wrong.”  
I have to consciously close my mouth when it occurs I am gaping.  
“But I really don’t know what to do-”  
“You don’t need to tell me. I know I’m going to die,” I cut her off again. “And I know I’ve never had a chance in hell to win, so just focus your mentoring skills on Darrem, okay?”  
“Immogen,” she says wearily.  
“It’s okay. I’ve accepted my fate and now I’ve got a plan.”  
“And what exactly is this plan?” She sounds worried.  
“Run, hide, then kill myself with dignity,” I walk back to my room.

~~~ 

Sitting in one room. In the same room as Aleck is possibly the worst feeling ever. Fear creeps along my spine each time his gaze rests on me. And the tension bubbles between him and 4, which makes me fidget and draws Aleck’s eyes to me more. The knots in my body melt as Aleck’s name is called to go next for the evaluation thing I haven’t even though about. We’re supposed to show the Gamemakers how skilled we are and all that. But the problem is that I have no skills. At least I didn’t eat breakfast because I think it would be making a reappearance if I had. When 4’s name - Finnick’s name is called out he moves slowly from the bench on the opposite side of the room. When he walks past me he slows and looks down.  
“Watch your back.”  
I shiver as he walks out of the room. Was that a threat? A warning? The three words seem to linger in the air. I wonder if anyone else heard what he had said. To me it sounded as if he were shouting at me. Watch your back, watch your back. The words don’t dissipate like I will them to. They grow louder, stronger, repeating until they make no sense to my abused mind.

“Immogen Solus!”  
I feel robotic as I walk to the exit of the room with nine pairs of eyes all trained on me. The doors make a whooshing sound as it slides across and again as it shuts behind me. I follow a dimly lit corridor to the training room and listen to my footsteps echo on the hard floor. I can sense all eyes above, in the gamemakers’ booth on me as I find the centre and stand, trying not to fidget. I wait and nothing happens.  
“Immogen Solus, District 8,” I say. Still no response.  
I walk over to the station where I learnt how to light a fire. Bending down I use two rocks provided to create a spark. Blowing gently I watch as the flame takes hold to a piece of straw I selected from the various plants. Setting the lit straw onto a few branches I turn to see what impact my fast creation of a fire did for the gamemakers. Nothing. Stomping on the fire I walk over to the climbing wall. I scale the hardest wall without fault, and without reaction from my observers. Huffing inwardly in exasperation I do my best not to stomp my feet as I make my way to the rack of weapons in the middle of the room. I stare at the assortment of sharp objects for a moment before choosing my weapon. I weigh a small knife in my hand, balancing it on the palm of my hand. I nod approval to myself and take the single weapon to a set of targets on the far side of the room. Planting my feet like I’d seen the other tributes do, I focus on the red spot in the centre of many other circles. These circles are all on the chest of a human shaped figure, hopefully made of foam. I don’t take my eyes away from my target until I release the knife from my hand. It happens all very quickly, me throwing it and it landing just above the red spot. I want to laugh but instead turn to the gamemakers. Nothing, just oddly vacant expressions. Now I want to shout at them. But I don’t. I just stalk out through a door that reads exit and hope that no one follows me.

~~~

 

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. Wait for someone to arrest me? My mind made a mess of the simplest thoughts so I stopped trying to think and sat down on the cool, hard tiles, my back sliding down the spotless glass. 

Somehow I fall asleep. I don’t know how long it has been since I did so, but I wake sprawled on the training center lobby floor, right where I had left myself. I blink groggily and stare up into a familiar face, though I am not sure how friendly. I jump to my feet faster than I had thought possible and stare wide-eyed at the District 4 boy with the auburn hair. Finnick, I remember his name. A small victory or at least it levels things out, I think, because knowing someone’s name allows them to hold power over you.   
“Immogen,” he starts.  
But I am already off, fleeing stupidly from nothing and everything that isn’t even there.  
“Immogen!” he shouts after me. His voice reverberates off all the hard surfaces. “Just be careful!”  
Why do I need to be careful? I think. Is this the prologue to some horrible torture you are planning Finnick? Using his name made me feel powerful. Not necessarily over him but over myself. I don’t know why. All I know at the moment is that if I run and keep running he’ll stop calling after me and then maybe everything will stop calling me and maybe they won’t care if I don’t show up for the games.


End file.
